


Shadow of a Man

by whichclothes



Category: BtVS - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-08
Updated: 2011-10-08
Packaged: 2017-10-24 10:12:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/262315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whichclothes/pseuds/whichclothes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Xander gives in to his inner darkness during season 4, with lasting consequences for him and Spike.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to silk_labyrinth for all the help with this one, and to ixcacao for the wonderful mix and art!

  


Title: Shadow of a Man   
  
Author: whichclothes  
Artist: ixcacao  
Mixer: ixcacao  
Fandom: BtVS  
Word Count: 11,847  
Rating: NC-17  
Characters/Pairings: Xander/Spike  
Warnings Non-con.  
Summary: Xander gives in to his inner darkness during season 4, with lasting consequences for him and Spike.  
Author's Note: Huge thanks to silk_labyrinth for all the help with this one, and to ixcacao for the wonderful mix and art!  
Disclaimer: I'm not Joss.  
Link to art and mix master post:    
[   
http://ixcacao.livejournal.com/16397.html   
](http://ixcacao.livejournal.com/16397.html)

 

  
  


[   
](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/001kbwqb)

 

 

[   
](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/001kd326)

  
  


  
It was not a companionable silence.    


  
Spike was tied to the bloody chair again, and he could have broken the ropes easily but what was the point? He’d only be chained up again in the Watcher’s bathtub. Or worse, thrown out on his arse to fend for himself. It was a cruel, harsh world for a vampire who couldn’t hunt, couldn’t defend himself.   


  
Harris slumped on his ugly sofa, which in a few hours would be unfolded again into a lumpy bed. His shoulders were hunched and his face was set in a scowl. He had demanded control of the clicker, which was why the telly was blaring an awful sitcom involving a whiny, self-absorbed redhead and her friends. But Harris wasn’t really watching; his eyes were focused fixedly on a spot somewhere slightly to the left of the television. He moved only to methodically slurp a can of Coors, toss away the empty, and retrieve a fresh one from the cooler near his feet.   


  
It was Spike who finally spoke, when he couldn’t stand the boredom one second longer. “What did you get sacked from this time? Assistant shit scraper?”   


  
“Didn’t get fired,” Harris growled.    


  
“Ah. So you’re still gainfully employed in the promising field of ... arse-kissing and boot-licking. That can’t be what has you down in the dumps, princess. Had another row with the parents?”   


  
Harris's voice was tight. “Haven’t seen Tony or Jessica for days. Hardly do anymore except when the rent’s due, and that’s not ’til next Tuesday.”    


  
“You’ll have to help me out here, whelp. You’ve so many things to be miserable about it’ll take me ages to hit on the right one. Slayer and Red let you know again that they’re too good for you, what with their university educations and all?”   


  
Harris still hadn’t looked at him; he clenched his jaw a couple times. “No. Me and Buff and Willow are good.”   


  
And then Spike got it. “Your demon bint! Haven’t seen her for days. Did she finally come to her senses and dump you?”   


  
“Drop it, Spike.” Harris's voice had a slight edge.    


  
Spike suppressed a grin. This was more like it. “Finally got tired of your tiny todger, did she?”   


  
“My dick’s not remotely tiny and she seemed pretty happy with it. It’s the rest of me she didn’t want. Evidently she deserves someone who knows what he wants in life and who goes after it.” His breathing had increased; Spike enjoyed the agitation.   


  
“So buck up. Be a man. Take back your power and all that.”   


  
Harris tossed his almost-empty beer can at Spike’s head. It missed by well over a foot and landed with a clatter on the concrete floor, joining several others. Harris turned off the television and stood—tossing the clicker well out of Spike’s reach—and began rearranging the sofa into a bed again. His movements were those of a drunk: overly careful and slightly clumsy; once he nearly tripped over his own foot.   


  
Spike didn’t fancy sitting in the dark with nothing but snores and rattling pipes for company. He thought quickly. “So why are you moping about in squalor, whelp? You’re free.”   


  
Harris snorted. “Free for what?” He climbed into bed and switched off the lamp. Spike could hear him rustling about under the bedcovers, undressing under the blankets like a blushing maiden.   


  
“Free to shag whomever you want.”   


  
“Yeah?” Harris had been slurring his words just a bit, but now his voice turned bitter. “You forget who you’re talking to: Xander Harris, Sunnydale’s biggest loser. There’s not exactly a line of wannabe lovers forming at the door.”   


  
“You have to put in at least a bit of effort, berk. Surely there must be something desperate enough for the likes of you. Something with low standards, doesn’t care if it screws a moron with a bright future as a fry cook.”   


  
Xander’s alarm clock went sailing by Spike’s head, missing him by an even bigger margin than the beer can. It crashed onto the floor, breaking into a jumble of plastic pieces. “Shut up!” Xander said.   


  
“Oi! ‘M just being helpful. Giving you suggestions.”   


  
“I don’t want your goddamn suggestions.”   


  
“Sure you do, whelp. Now—”   


  
“I’m not a whelp! I’m a man.”   


  
Spike laughed. “You’re a boy. Even if you live much longer—which I doubt—you’ll never be a true man. Too weak.”   


  
There was a brief pause while Xander seemed to be searching for something else to throw at Spike. Finding nothing more lethal than a pillow, he had to content himself with snarling, “I’m not weak.”   


  
“You hide behind little girls,” Spike sneered. “But don’t let that discourage you. This is the Hellmouth! Place is teeming with creatures who’ve no need for stupid human morality and who are eager for some hot human arse. Some of ‘em would find your weakness tasty, I’ll wager. They’d fancy keeping you as a pet, maybe.”   


  
“Goddamn demons.”   


  
“Oi! Some demons are dead sexy. And not all demons will kill you. Some are harmless.”   


  
The light clicked on. Harris was sitting up in bed, hair ruffled, glaring in his direction. “Harmless?” Harris asked.   


  
“Sure. Too weak to fight humans—even you—or perhaps they’re bloody pacifists. Vegetarians or summat.”   


  
Harris stared at him a few moments more and then clambered out of bed. He was wearing a pair of boxer shorts emblazoned with cartoon figures. “You know what? You’re right! And I never thought I’d say those words, but it’s true.”   


  
“Bloody right I am. Go get ’em, tiger.” Spike waved slightly with his bound hand.   


  
Harris smiled in a way Spike didn’t like one bit. Reminded him of ... something predatory. “Why go out when I can stay at home?” Harris asked, and took a step in Spike’s direction.   


  
Spike choked as he caught the boy’s meaning. “No! Not—not me, pillock! Girls! Females! Plenty of ’em about.”   


  
Harris was unruffled as he took another step. “See, that’s the thing. Thanks to Ahn's creativity, I’ve explored the girl option. But last summer I had sort of a male-only thing. In Oxnard. But it was a ... partial thing, and I think maybe I should try the whole deal. See if it ... fits.” There was a certain ruthlessness in his smile. “Like you said, take some power back.”   


  
“You’re a sodding sodomite!” Spike squawked, realizing he sounded like an outraged Victorian.   


  
Harris only grinned. “Not yet.” He prowled a bit closer.   


  
Spike tugged at the ropes. “Why me?” he demanded.   


  
“Why not? You’re here. You’re ... not hideous. And you’re harmless.” He lifted his chin. “You used to hurt me. You used to scare me. But maybe now,” he squared his shoulders, “now it’s your turn to be scared.” And there was something chilling about the glint in his eyes, about the way his hands were balled into fists at his side. There was pent-up anger there that Spike suspected had little to do with the way Spike had treated the boy before the chip, and more to do with the way the world at large had screwed the boy over. It was the same fury Spike had overheard every time Tony Harris had one of his drunken rages.   


  
Spike took a few calming breaths. “I'm not a poofter,” he announced.   


  
“Aw, c’mon. You’re really, really old. You’ve honestly never been with a guy in all those years?”   


  
“Just that one ti—” Spike had a sudden memory of a heavy body on top of his, hard muscles and soft Gaelic curses. He swallowed. “I had Dru. She may be a faithless bitch but I’m not.”    


  
“Well, maybe it’s time for you to try something new.” Harris had closed the distance between them and he now loomed over Spike, his crotch uncomfortably close to Spike’s face. “Maybe your horizons need expanding. Maybe you need to learn to keep your fucking mouth shut.” He began to unfasten the knots that held Spike to the chair.   


  
Spike waited until the ropes were loosened, then ducked away and bolted towards the door. “Piss off!”   


  
“You leave, Fangless, and I’ll revoke your invitation.”   


  
Spike stopped short of the threshold. He remembered the desperate gnawing in his belly before he’d thrown away his pride and gone crawling to the Watcher. He remembered how it felt to have no sanctuary. While he stood immobile, Harris walked over, stopping mere inches away, so close his sour breath puffed against Spike’s face.   


  
“I don’t _want_ this,” Spike said, as reasonably as he could manage.   


  
But Harris shook his head. “You have no problems with kidnapping and blackmail and torture and murder, but a little ... a little nooky, that goes against your values?”   


  
“ ’T’s _rape_ , wanker.”   


  
Harris got a strange glint in his eyes and his smile didn’t falter. “No, it isn’t, ’cause you’re not a real person, are you? I can do anything I want to you and the law won’t touch me. Hell, I dust a vamp and I’m a hero.” He poked at Spike’s chest as if his finger were a stake.   


  
Spike turned his head away. “Right. ’M not real. So why would you want to fuck rubbish like me?”   


  
“You said it yourself. ‘Dead sexy.’ Emphasis on the dead, I guess. And you’re convenient.”   


  
Spike silently cursed himself for creating this situation and cast about for ways to stop this. “Harris, look—”   


  
“No.” Another poke to his chest. “You look. I’ve been giving you free housing even though you’ve done nothing but try to kill me and my friends. I work those shit jobs so I can make rent, and you just sit around, running your mouth. You owe me. So ... take your fucking clothes off and get on my bed. Or get out.”   


  
The boy was serious. Spike considered his options—none of them were pretty. In the end, though, he was a survivor, and he’d already jettisoned his self-respect several weeks earlier. He sighed. Being raped by a slayerette was less dire than starvation and final death.   


  
He growled and walked away from Harris, stripping his clothing so quickly that his shirt ripped. The boy watched every move as if it were a show put on for his benefit. When Spike was naked, Harris gestured impatiently at the bed. Spike shuddered and climbed onto the mattress, sprawling on his back.   


  
Harris nodded and padded over to the chair. When he came back, he had lengths of rope in his hands. He grabbed one of Spike’s wrists.   


  
“Oi!” Spike wrenched his limb free, making the chip spark at him, which wasn’t bloody fair. “You have your way. No need for bondage.”   


  
“But I still don’t trust you,” Xander said. He took Spike’s arm again, stretched it over Spike’s head, and quickly lashed it to one of the sofa legs. The knots were tight enough to cut off circulation, if Spike had had any blood flow. Then Xander did the same with the other arm and looked down at Spike speculatively. He walked across the room again and fetched another can of beer, which he downed in one long go. Then he tossed it away and loomed over the bed.   


  
“Okay. Here’s the rules—” he began.   


  
“You’re about to bloody rape me. There aren’t any ruddy rules.”   


  
Xander shocked him by slapping his face—not at all gently. “Sure there are. You do what I say. And not a word to anyone. You tell anyone what happened here tonight and I’ll tell Buffy you forced me.”   


  
Spike gaped at him “I ... I forced _you_? That’s ... I couldn’t if I wanted to. Chip.”   


  
Harris shrugged. “Maybe the chip had a glitch. Who’s she gonna believe—mass-murdering vampire or white-hatted best friend?”   


  
Xander was obviously as intoxicated with power as he was with beer, and Spike realized that—like Tony Harris—Xander was a mean drunk. While Spike continued to gawk at the boy’s unexpected evil streak, Harris climbed on board, straddling Spike’s hips. His broad arse settled on Spike’s groin. It was warm and firmer than Spike had expected. In fact, now that he was forced to examine the boy up close, he could see that the baggy clothing had been hiding a body that was surprisingly trim and muscular. The boy’s fringe hung down over his face as he visually inspected Spike’s chest and then experimentally swiped his thumbs over Spike’s nipples. The flesh tightened under the stimulation, sending unwanted little tingles through Spike’s nerves.   


  
“Nice,” Harris said, his voice a bit rough. “Kind of weird, with the cold and the no heartbeat, but not bad.”   


  
“ ’M thrilled I meet with your approval.” Words the only weapon at his disposal.   


  
Spike stared at the dirty ceiling as Harris continued to play with his nipples. Sometimes the boy ran his hands along Spike’s collarbones instead, or down the center of his chest—but never tenderly. The cartoon boxers tented as Harris’s erection grew, which was alarming. But what was even worse was that the stimulation of the sensitive bits of Spike’s body and the pressure against his cock were making him hard as well.   


  
Harris felt Spike’s erection and smirked. “Maybe not so straight after all, huh?” he said, waggling his arse a bit. Then he dismounted and shucked the ridiculous boxers.   


  
Spike took one look and wished he hadn’t. “No! No way! You’re not shoving that ... that monster in me!” He pulled at the ropes and crossed his legs.   


  
“I thought I had a tiny todger.”   


  
“Fine. I take it back.” Because there was definitely nothing tiny about the thing between Harris’s legs. “Let me go. Or just ... how about a bit of frotting, yeah? Could give you a lovely hand job, or—”   


  
“Shut up! I told you—I've done that stuff before. I want the real thing this time, and I’m the boss.”   


  
Harris paused a moment, looking down at him. “This’ll be easier if you're face-down.”   


  
Spike liked that idea—he wouldn’t be forced to see the gleam of bloodlust in Xander's eyes, and his own humiliation would be buried in the bedclothes. “Turn me over then.”   


  
“Don't think so. I wanna look at you. Remind myself that I'm fucking a guy. ’Cause from behind, it's not always so clear. But this way there’s no doubt, is there?” And he batted at Spike’s cock, which had begun to soften but now perked right up. “Nope. No doubt at all.”   


  
Spike closed his eyes and decided to lie back and think of England. But closed eyes didn’t block out the feeling of a pillow being shoved under his arse, or of big hands urging his legs apart, bending them at the knees. Those hands ran up and down the inside of his thighs, making him shiver. And then a broad finger barely slicked with spit was tracing around the edge of his hole. His muscles immediately clamped down in self-defense, but that wasn’t enough to stop the finger from roughly intruding, invading his most intimate bits.   


  
With a strained voice, Spike tried one last time. “Look, Harris. It’s obvious by now that you’re ... excited. Let’s call the experiment complete, right? You like blokes. Good on you. Now you can go out and—” He yelped as a second finger entered him.   


  
The worst of it wasn’t the invasion itself, but the fact that his traitorous body was reacting to it, his hips aching to move, his balls throbbing, his cock hard as stone. And that devil Harris wasn’t satisfied just to finger-fuck him. No, he had to crook his fingers just so, stimulating Spike’s prostate as skillfully as any pro.   


  
“Just ... get it over with, already,” he growled. “ ’M not your sodding lover.”   


  
Harris didn’t pause in his motions, but he did chuckle darkly. “No reason you can’t enjoy too. You’re kind of a slut, aren’t you?”   


  
“I’m not enjoying!” Spike yelled. “Don’t want this and—”   


  
“Fine. You’re not having a good time. But your dick sure is.” He squeezed the organ in question, hard.   


  
After that, Spike simply gave up. He lay there silently as Harris continued to play with his body. When the boy finally lined up that huge cock and rammed it into him, at least Spike was well-prepared and the pain was less than he expected. It still hurt, though, and Spike tried to relax his muscles, to ease the entry as much as he could.   


  
“Holy fuck!” Harris grunted as he began to rock his hips. “That’s … that’s _good_. Damn. You're a good fuck, Spike.”   


  
Spike had to admit to himself that under very different circumstances it could have been good for him as well. The heat inside him was working its way through the core of his body, warming cold flesh from the inside out. And Harris’s grip on Spike’s cock was just strong enough and his movements deft, his dick finding exactly the right angle with every thrust. The pain wasn’t a problem either, as far as Spike’s body was concerned; vampires were accustomed to mixing pain with their pleasure.   


  
And the entire time, Harris was _looking_ at him, bright angry eyes focused on Spike’s face. Spike squeezed his own eyes tightly shut and tried to hold off his orgasm, but Harris twisted like _this_ with his hips and stroked like _that_ with his hand and then Spike was biting his own lip to keep himself silent as he climaxed.   


  
The contractions of Spike’s interior muscles must have felt good to Harris, because the boy gasped and swore and his movements became erratic. And then he collapsed atop Spike with an audible _oof_.   


  
Harris was heavy. His lungs rasped, and his skin was slightly clammy with sweat. His breath reeked of stale beer. His softening cock slipped out of Spike’s body, which left Spike with the disgusting and humiliating feeling of tepid fluids dripping slowly out of him, collecting on the pillow that was still under his arse. And his arms hurt, the muscles protesting the manner in which he’d been tied.   


  
Eventually Harris rolled off Spike, flopping melodramatically onto his back beside him. Spike rolled his head to glare at him. “Someday I’ll have the chip out. And when I do, yours will be the first throat I tear open.”   


  
“Whatever.” With a slight groan, Harris stood and stretched, newly unselfconscious about his nudity. “One of these days something’s gonna get me, Spike. Might as well be you.” And, still tightly bound, Spike watched as the boy padded over to the fridge and fetched himself another can of beer.   



	2. Chapter 2

[   
](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/001kbwqb)

[   
](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/001ke8wc)

  
  


  
Spike barely glanced up from the bed he was stripping. “Office is down the hall to the right. They’ll tell you which room you’re looking for.”   


  
“But I was looking for you,” was the quiet reply.   


  
Spike tossed the soiled linens into the bin and gave the visitor a closer look. And then he was nearly paralyzed with surprise. “Harris?”   


  
The man smiled slightly. “Used to be, anyway.”   


  
Spike simply stared. He hadn’t seen Xander Harris since the end of Sunnydale. Nearly fifteen years, and those years hadn’t been kind to the man. He was mostly gaunt, with a small, unhealthy-looking paunch. His face was worn and his short hair was more gray than brown. He still wore a black patch over his missing eye. But he was dressed neatly in a pair of khaki trousers and a blue Oxford shirt, and the gaze in his single eye was steady.   


  
“What … what are you doing here?” Spike asked.   


  
“I came— I wanted to talk to you.”   


  
“About what?”   


  
Harris looked around the small room with its bland institutional paintings on the pastel walls, and its scuffed vinyl floor, and the mattress perched on the metal-framed bed. A television hung on one wall and a small wheeled table had been pushed into one corner. The management had made a small attempt to make the room a bit homier: a pair of comfortable chairs flanked the bed and colorful curtains hung at the window. “Can we go someplace else?” Harris asked.   


  
“I’m working.”   


  
“Yeah. I see that. It’s a little weird, actually. The scrubs are kind of a new look for you.”   


  
Spike glowered at him. “Have to pay the rent, yeah? Blood’s not free.”   


  
“I get that. But still— Why work here?”   


  
Spike pushed the laundry cart to the door. He ducked into the loo for a moment and grabbed the two thin towels, noting as he did that the shower stall hadn’t been scrubbed properly by Marco, the lazy sod who worked the day shift. If Spike hurried, he might have time to get to it before the end of his shift. He re-entered the main room and threw the towels in with the sheets. “Why not?” he finally answered. “Pay’s all right and the hours suit me. May be a corpse but I’m livelier than most of the patients. They don’t notice what I am.” He narrowed his eyes. “How’d you find me?”   


  
For the first time, Harris looked a mite uncomfortable. “I … I sort of looked up some old … some people I hadn’t talked to in a while.”   


  
Spike tilted his head. “The Slayer?”   


  
“Yeah. And Willow and Dawn. They helped me find you.”   


  
Unsure whether he was happy about being so easily found, Spike twitched his shoulders. “Which brings us back to the why.”   


  
“Can’t we just sit down somewhere for a while? Maybe you can take a break.”   


  
Spike sighed; curiosity had always been a great weakness of his. “My shift ends at four. We can meet then.”   


  
Harris nodded. “Good. Where?”   


  
That required some thought. Spike didn’t fancy inviting the man into his flat. Harris might have had a motel room somewhere, but Spike didn’t want to go there either. Not many public spaces were available at that time of night. “McDonalds,” he finally said. “There’s one a half mile down the road. ’T’s open twenty-four hours.”   


  
“McDonalds, huh? Also weird, but fine with me.” With a final little half-wave, Harris left.   


  
Spike finished tidying the room and he trundled down the hall with his cart. The next room was occupied and Mrs. Alkhas blinked at him as he entered. As with many of the other patients, her sense of time was warped and it wasn’t unusual for her to be awake during the wee hours. Her wrists were bound loosely to the bed frame with padded leather straps and her white hair was fanned out on her pillow. “Tommy?” she said to Spike. “Did you remember to feed the chickens?”   


  
“Yes, ma’am,” Spike answered softly. “Chickens are fed.”   


  
“Are you sure? Last week you told me you had finished your chores, but I know you were out with that Beverly girl.”   


  
Spike approached the bed and bowed his head respectfully. “I promise. My chores are finished.”   


  
She seemed slightly mollified—the worry lines on her forehead eased a bit—and she nodded. “You used to be such a good boy. That Beverly, she’s no good. A girl like that might seem like fun, Tommy, but you don’t want to settle down with her. You need someone steady.”   


  
“Yes, ma’am.”   


  
She nodded again and tugged at the straps. “I have to go now. Mrs. Fagundes will be waiting. We have the bake sale to plan and it’s always such a bother and … Oh!” Her face was distressed again.   


  
Spike reached out and stroked her skinny arm. “ ’T’s all right, ma’am. I’ll ring her and tell her you’ll be along shortly. You just rest a bit, yeah? Can’t plan the bake sale if you’re knackered.”   


  
Her gaze went unfocused. “Just a little rest …”   


  
“That’s right. No worries. I’ll sort Mrs. Fagundes.”   


  
“Tommy …,” she began, but her eyelids drooped closed and her movements stilled. Spike patted her once more and then headed to collect the used towels in her loo.   


  
He had four more rooms to clean that night, all occupied, but the occupants remained asleep. He thought about Harris as he worked, wondering what the man wanted from him after all these years, why he’d made such an effort to seek Spike out. It was disturbing, even though there hadn’t been anything overtly threatening in this Harris’s demeanor.    


  
Perhaps Harris had lied. Perhaps some of the Scoobies had sent him to recruit Spike. Back when Buffy had learned that Spike had been resurrected—a few months after the final business at Wolfram & Hart—she had tracked him down herself and asked him to join them in Europe. “We could use another strong fighter,” she’d said. But he’d refused, because he didn’t want to be another strong fighter; he wanted to be _hers_ , but he knew that would never happen. Besides, by then he wasn’t nearly as strong as she imagined him to be. So he’d told her that the only remaining souled vampire should stay in the States, someone to keep evil from gaining a toehold in the Americas. And she’d nodded gravely and gone away again.    


  
Perhaps she also knew that Spike hadn’t truly kept his word, that he’d spent most of these past years living like the shadow of a man, with menial jobs and lonely flats and packaged blood, and only an occasional abortive foray into hunting nasties. He’d tried to do more, he really had. But every time he considered getting into a really good brawl—the type he used to relish even after he regained his soul—he’d remember those long, long minutes in the alley, watching his friends all die, seeing even Illyria destroyed as she used all her considerable powers to obliterate their enemies. Remaining on the pavement afterwards, broken and alone. And with those memories his breathing would grow harsh and there would be a rushing in his ears. His limbs would go weak and trembling. And he’d back away, returning to his quiet, cowardly existence.   


  
Anyhow, even if the Slayer did want to try again to recruit him—and his heart twisted a bit at the idea of it—she wouldn’t send Harris. She wasn’t aware of the entire history between Spike and him, but surely she was wise enough to know that they’d never got along, that Harris would never make a good ambassador to Spike.   


  
That line of reasoning left Spike exactly where he’d begun: full of unanswered questions. He hurried through his final chores—not even stopping to flirt with the night nurses—and managed to get a more thorough scrub of that shower accomplished before he stowed his cart and headed to the office.   


  
“Four o’clock already?” asked Doug Pavley, the night manager. He barely bothered to look away from the laptop on his desk where he was, no doubt, watching old movies online as he did every night. But he was a good enough sort—not too demanding, always treating Spike as an equal, and giving him overtime hours as often as he could—so Spike stayed mum to Rose Manor’s upper administrators about their employee’s web surfing habits.   


  
“Just past, actually.”   


  
“You got room 6 cleaned up? We’ve got a new one being admitted this afternoon.”   


  
“Yeah. But Marco’s been shirking again. Don’t fancy doing his work all the time.”   


  
Pavley looked briefly in Spike’s direction. “Sorry. I’ll make a note of it. And hey, I was gonna offer him an extra shift on the 5th, but do you want it instead? It’s Labor Day so, y’know, time and a half.”   


  
“Yeah. Cheers.”   


  
There was a small locker room next to the office. Spike went inside and changed his scrubs and trainers for his more usual jeans and tee and Docs, then headed to the car park, where his Studebaker grumbled to life. It was running a bit rough; he’d need to take a peek under the bonnet soon.   


  
There were only a few cars outside McDonalds and Spike pegged one of them as Harris’s straight away: a small white Chevy that sported a sticker from Enterprise Rent-A-Car. So he wasn’t surprised to discover Harris already waiting for him inside the restaurant, sitting in a booth and sipping at a paper coffee cup. A plastic-looking thing that was likely meant to be a pastry lay on a square of paper in front of him. He watched with a strange combination of relief and anxiety on his face as Spike approached.   


  
Spike folded himself onto the facing seat.   


  
“You want some coffee or something?” Harris asked. “I know you don’t need the caffeine or anything, but—”   


  
“No.”   


  
A long and painful silence followed. Harris played with an empty sugar packet while Spike looked about. Aside from the sleepy employees, there were only four other people in the place: a middle-aged bloke with a grimy baseball cap, whom Spike decided probably belonged with the lorry he’d seen in the car park; a young man whose tattoos didn’t hide the track marks on his arms; and a couple in their mid-twenties, both sporting WalMart uniforms. The restaurant smelled of old grease and ketchup and cleaning fluids.   


  
“I’m a drunk.”   


  
Spike whipped his head about to stare at Harris. “Say again?”   


  
“I’m a drunk. Technically, a high functioning alcoholic. Have been for years. I started not long after Sunnydale. The girls noticed. They tried to help me, except I didn’t figure I needed any help. It was just a couple of drinks, right? Just, you know,” he gestured at his missing his eye, “numbing the pain a little. After a while, I came back to the States. Got a job—construction. Not a demon in sight. And I was really good at it. I became a supervisor, then a manager, and finally a partner. I might have had a hangover some days, but I was always at work sober and on time. I had it all under control, no problem.” He sighed. “Except I had a wife who divorced me—took our daughter with—and then a boyfriend who left me. But that was their fault. They didn’t realize—a guy works hard, he’s earned a drink or six when he comes home at night.”   


  
Spike didn’t respond, instead staring flatly across the table, noticing the lines at the corners of Harris’s mouth, the slight tremor in one hand. Spike’s fingers drummed restlessly on his knee and he wished he could light up a cigarette.   


  
Harris continued. “I used to drive wasted all the time but I never got in an accident. I had blackouts a few times, woke up next to some stranger more than once. But man, I dodged all the bullets. Never even ended up with HIV even though … well, even though I probably should’ve. I figured, hey, I must’ve run through all my bad luck when I was a kid. Now I’m good. It’s all good.”   


  
He poked at his pastry with a plastic fork but didn’t actually eat any. The center of the pastry contained a congealed red substance that looked considerably less appetizing than blood. Spike wondered if there was anything to it besides sugar and chemicals.   


  
For the first time since he’d begun his monologue, Harris looked at Spike. “I hit my daughter. She was … she’s eight. Really cute and smart, but stubborn as hell. She was visiting me for a weekend while my ex was out of town, and I promised myself I wouldn’t drink while she was there but it had been a tough week at work and … and I drank. A lot. And when Brianna wouldn’t brush her teeth like I told her and pitched a fit over bedtime, I hit her. Slapped her in the face. Hard. I needed to get my power back, you know? Christ, the look in her eyes …” His voice broke and he buried his face in his hands.   


  
Finally, Spike responded. “So you hit her. My father used to cane me so hard I couldn’t sit properly for days.”   


  
Harris snapped his head up. “Yeah, and Tony used a belt on me. It’s called child abuse nowadays, Spike. Being beaten doesn’t make a kid more obedient or tougher or any of the other shit people say when they’re whaling on their kids. It makes kids afraid and angry. Makes them hate themselves. Makes them … makes them weak.”   


  
Spike worked his jaw but didn’t argue. Perhaps the man was right. Theodore Pratt’s beatings of his boy had produced a sniveling, worthless ponce who easily became a murderous beast.    


  
Harris took a deep breath and let it out. “It was the one thing I’d promised myself every time Tony raised his hand to me. One of the first things I whispered into Brianna’s ear when she was so tiny I could hold her in one hand. ‘I’ll never be like that. I’ll never hurt my child.’ And it was a lie.”   


  
“Why are you telling me this? I’m not your bloody confessor.” Spike said it loud enough that the other patrons turned to give him dull stares. He glared at them and they all turned away again.   


  
“I stopped drinking. I’ve been on the wagon over six months now,” said Harris.   


  
“And you want a sodding medal?”   


  
“No. Part of my recovery— There are different things I gotta do; giving up the booze is only part of it. I have to apologize to people I’ve harmed in my life. So I’ve been doing that. Jesus, it’s a really long list when you add it all up, and some of them … well, it’s hard to say you’re sorry to someone who’s dead. But I’m doing my best.” He looked away for a moment, and then back at Spike. “I came here to tell you I’m sorry.”   


  
Spike blinked at him. “You’re telling a vampire you’re sorry?”   


  
“I’m telling _you_ I’m sorry. Look, you were an asshole, okay? You kidnapped me, hurt me, hurt my friends. But none of that excuses what I did to you. There were a hundred times I could’ve staked you and I wouldn’t feel guilty about it today. But not …” Again he paused to inhale and exhale deeply. “I’m sorry I attacked—” He closed his eye tightly, as if he were in pain, then opened it again. In a near whisper, he said, “I’m sorry I raped you.”   


  
For what seemed like ages, Spike was speechless as emotions poured through him. Finally, he growled a response. “Wasn’t rape because I’m not a real person, yeah?”   


  
Harris winced. “That’s what I told myself for a long, long time. But it’s not true. You may not be human but you’re as real as I am and I had no right to do that to you.”   


  
“Bloody right you didn’t!” Spike leaned across the table and was disappointed when Harris didn’t cower back. “You reckon I’ve been crying into my pillow all these years? _Boo-hoo, Xander Harris ruined my unlife_. I’m a fucking demon!” He slammed his fist on the plastic tabletop, not caring about his audience. “There is nothing someone like you could do to hurt me.”   


  
If he’d hoped to frighten Harris or to wound him with his words, he was unsuccessful. Harris just looked back at him, nodding slightly. “Okay. I’m glad it wasn’t … But I’m still sorry. I really am.”   


  
Spike threw himself against the back of his seat. “If it’s absolution you’re after, forget it. I don’t forgive you.”   


  
More nods. “I’ll have to live with that, then. But I still want you to know that I regret it. That you didn’t deserve what I did to you. And that … that I was wrong about you. You are a real person.” Harris shrugged. Then he stood and gathered his empty coffee cup and uneaten pastry, and he walked to the nearby cabinet, pushing the little door that said THANK YOU and dumping his things into the rubbish bin inside.   


  
Spike expected Harris to leave then, but he didn’t. Instead, he detoured back to the table where Spike still sat. In a quiet voice, Harris said, “I never thanked you either. For this,” he pointed to his remaining eye, “or for being there when Buffy really needed someone. For wearing that stupid necklace. So … thank you. And I know there’s probably nothing you’ll ever want from me, but if you do need something, well, give me a call.” He fished a business card from his pocket and dropped it on the table. Spike didn’t move to take it.   


  
Harris stood there, and Spike didn’t know whether it was because he had more to say or because he expected some kind of response. Harris ran a hand through his hair in what might have been a habit left over from when his hair was long and shaggy and almost black. But when he smiled slightly, just a sad little quirk of his lips, he suddenly looked younger. Looked almost like the boy who’d grown up among demons.    


  
“Good luck, Spike. Whatever you used to do, whatever you are, you’re still a better man than me.”   


  
And then, finally, he turned on his heel, marched across the floor, and left.   


 


	3. Chapter 3

[   
](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/001kbwqb)

[   
](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/001kfq7r)

  
  


  
“William! Those flowers are dead. Why haven’t you thrown them away?”   


  
“I’ll do it in a mo,” Spike replied, continuing to mop the floor.   


  
Mildred Dolan was not a sweet little old lady. Unlike many of Rose Manor’s residents, she was in possession of a mind that was as sharp as it had ever been. It was her body that was betraying her, some sort of blood disease that left her bedridden, dying inch by painful inch, and she was angry as hell over it. Spike rather liked her. She slept very little, so he always tried to spend a bit of extra time in her room, drawing out the tidying as long as he could. She called him lazy and shiftless, but he reckoned she enjoyed having someone to yell at in the hard hours before dawn, so he stayed. He didn’t even mind too much that she insisted on using his given name.   


  
“I’ll be in my grave before you get to it at this rate,” she said.   


  
“Well, see, that’s the nice thing about being dead. Little things like past-their-prime bouquets don’t bother you any longer.”   


  
She glared at him but couldn’t quite stop the corner of her lip from twitching upward.   


  
He did eventually finish cleaning the floor, then dumped the wilted flowers into the rubbish bin. “You want to keep the vase?” he asked, holding up the cheap glass container.   


  
“Why would I want that ugly thing? Throw it away.”   


  
“Right.” He dropped the vase into the bin as well, then looked about the room. “Everything’s sorted here, so I’ll—”   


  
“Wait. There’s paper and a pen in my purse. Go get them. And don’t even think of stealing anything while you’re at it.”   


  
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He went to the little side table where her bag was perched. It was an expensive purse, he thought, one of those enormous ones that always made him wonder why the hell some women had to carry their entire household everywhere they went. But in Mrs. Dolan’s case, he understood: the purse really did contain all her remaining worldly goods aside from a few nightgowns, a pair of slippers, and the shelf full of photos and pathetic Get Well Soon cards. He dug around under her sharp gaze until he unearthed a slim silver pen and a small spiral-bound notebook with a red cover. He brought these items over to her.   


  
But she didn’t take them. “Don’t give them to me, stupid boy! What good are they to me?”    


  
He shrugged. He knew her eyesight had recently grown poor enough that she could no longer read her beloved paperback mysteries. He wondered if he could squeeze a little time into his schedule to read to her, and how he could get the prideful old lady to allow him to do so.   


  
“Can you spell?” she asked him suspiciously.   


  
“Passably.”   


  
“Fine. Then write.”   


  
He glanced at the clock, wondering in passing whether it was cruel to keep a timepiece so prominently displayed in the rooms of the dying. “Don’t have time to transcribe your memoirs now, missus.”   


  
“It’s only a list.”   


  
“Do you need us to ring Paul and have him bring you some things?” Paul was her son, who visited her faithfully three times a week, often bringing his wife and children along as well.   


  
“No! It’s not a shopping list. Stop talking and write, William.”   


  
He shut his mouth and opened the notebook. He clicked the pen.   


  
She pursed her mouth for a moment and then said, “Learn Italian.”   


  
“Sorry?”   


  
“Write that down: Learn Italian.” She waited while he dutifully scribed. “See the pyramids. That’s P-Y-R—“   


  
“A-M-I-D-S. Told you I could spell.”   


  
She sniffed disdainfully, then thought for a few moments. “Sell a painting,” she finally said. Her voice softened. “I used to dabble with oils. I was pretty good at it. I always thought that maybe if I’d given it a little more time…”   


  
“Sell a painting,” he echoed as he wrote.   


  
This time she had to think a good deal longer. Her eyes were closed and he almost thought she’d fallen asleep, but then she opened them again and lifted her chin. “Have a torrid affair,” she announced firmly.   


  
He managed to keep a straight face. “Torrid affair. Got it.”   


  
She nodded. She spent several more minutes lost in thought before she nodded again. “Yes. I think that’s it. How many items are there, William?”   


  
“Four.”   


  
“Four. That’s not very many, is it? Not so many things left undone.”   


  
“No, ma’am. Not many at all.”   


  
She nodded again and held out her hand for the notebook, which he handed her. He set the pen on her bedside table and she closed her eyes, both hands touching her list. The harsh lines of her face seemed to soften a bit.   


  
“Night,” Spike whispered and turned out the light.    


  
But before he left, she called out, “Wait.”   


  
“Yeah?”   


  
“You don’t seem to be completely witless. A young man like you should be doing more than cleaning up after old ladies.”   


  
“ ’M not as young as I look,” he said.   


  
“Well, all the more reason then. When you’re young it feels like you’ll have all the time in the world, but then when you get older the years fly by. How long is your list, William?”   


  
He left without answering.   


  
  


  
***   


  
  


  
The blank piece of paper seemed to mock him.    


  
He’d seen the pyramids more than once—Dru quite fancied them—and he spoke Italian and a dozen languages besides. He’d never had any desire to paint. As for torrid affairs, well, he reckoned he had that covered.    


  
He had eternity in front of him, at least in theory. What was left undone? He didn’t expect redemption and he’d given up on love. What did he want, then?   


  
With a growl of frustration, he rose from the chair and stalked to the fridge. He’d already eaten, so instead of a packet of blood he retrieved a bottle of beer. He yanked off the cap and swigged it down, leaning against the cupboard as he swallowed.   


  
His flat was modest but pleasant. Heavy curtains covered the windows during the day. The living room contained a comfortable sofa and well-worn armchair, as well as a television that received several hundred channels and streamed films. He could even surf the internet, when he so chose. There was a large shelving unit overstuffed with books.   


  
The single bedroom had a big bed and a chest of drawers, a second telly for watching in bed, and a cupboard where he stored the small box of souvenirs he had held onto over the years.    


  
He’d removed the mirror from the bathroom wall, but he liked the big bathtub.   


  
His kitchen had all the mod cons: microwave, dishwasher, tiny washing machine and dryer.   


  
Hospital reject blood was delivered to him every Monday and Thursday afternoon, there was a liquor store only a few blocks away, and his Studebaker was parked right outside his front door.   


  
What more could he need?   


 


	4. Chapter 4

[   
](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/001kbwqb)

[   
](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/001kg1y1)

  
  


  
Spike had Sundays and Mondays off during most of the year, except for the bits when the National Football League was playing, in which case he had Tuesdays and Wednesdays instead. The other bloke who worked night shifts was a big fan of American football, so he and Spike had organized a deal. It actually didn’t matter much to Spike; one day was pretty much the same as the next. In any case, because there was no football in March, Spike did not go to Rose Manor on Sunday night. Instead, an hour or two after the sun set he laced his boots, shrugged on his duster, and drove the couple of miles to Kelley’s.   


  
Kelley’s was the divier of the city’s two demon bars. The other one, Route Zero, catered to the relatively peaceful and affluent members of the humanity-challenged. Soft music played from overhead speakers, the waitresses wore smart black and white uniforms, and the drinks were overpriced and watered down. But at least it was a place where a bloke could let his fangs show in relative quiet, where the bartender wouldn’t ring 911 if a customer requested a Bloody Mary with real blood. Spike often went to Route Zero on Sunday nights and sometimes he’d find someone interested in a nice shag, but more often he’d sit there nursing his drink and simply observing the other patrons.   


  
He rarely went to Kelley’s. The place had a jukebox, and while the song selection was frequently the cause of bloody brawls, none of the choices were ever soft and soothing. The waiters looked like 400-pound purple lizards with a kink for leather and chains, the customers were rowdy and argumentative, and the drinks were the no-nonsense sorts intended to get the drinker rat-arsed as fast as possible. It was a rare night at Kelley’s that didn’t end with broken furniture and mangled bodies, and that was why Spike usually went to Route Zero.   


  
But this Sunday he went to Kelley’s.   


  
Nobody gave him any notice when he entered; he wasn’t well known in the local demon community, despite having lived in the city for nearly four years. He strode to the bar, where the bartender gave him a long look, no doubt trying to assess Spike’s species and proclivity for violence.   


  
“Jack,” Spike said. “Might as well give me the whole bottle now.”   


  
The bartender wasn’t very big, but he had little hooked barbs on most of his exposed skin, and each barb oozed a toxic-looking liquid. He narrowed his three beady eyes at Spike, then nodded. Spike tossed a wad of cash on the damp counter, and the barkeep handed over the bottle and a somewhat clean glass.   


  
Spike took his glass and whiskey and threaded his way through the crowds. There were a handful of humans present—fangbangers, pets, and drug dealers, for the most part—but the majority of the customers were demons. Some played at the billiards tables. Others sat or stood or crouched, bottles and glasses in hands or paws or claws, and they drank and talked and argued and laughed. A few of them snogged. Many of them eyed Spike closely as he passed, but nobody said anything to him. He found an empty table near the back wall and seated himself on the wobbly chair before untwisting the cap of his Jack.   


  
The first gulp went down like holy water, but after that his throat smoothed out. He remembered a time when the Scoobies were about to enter into a battle—one of the many times—and while the girls were busy strategizing with the Watcher, Harris had snuck a flask from his coat pocket.   


  
“Dutch courage?” Spike had said to him with a sneer.   


  
Harris had shrugged. “I’ll take my courage however I can get it, Fangless. You try fighting monsters without a single, teeny-tiny superpower and see how you feel about it. Maybe you’d need a shot or two to get your feet heading in the right direction.” And he’d raised the flask in a mock salute before taking a healthy pull from it.   


  
Spike had never mentioned the flask to the Slayer or the witch or the others. He had told himself it was none of his bloody business anyhow, but the truth was that he was afraid—afraid that if he spilled that secret about Harris other secrets would come out as well. Now he wondered if the man wasn’t still lying to himself, sobriety program and all, if he was placing the blame for his drinking on the post-Sunnydale mess.   


  
Well, it didn’t matter. Spike worked at his bottle of Jack and watched the demons and was happy to have his own liquid courage that night. Not enough to get completely pissed; he wanted most of his wits about him. But enough, he hoped, to dull the edges of terror, to block the images of a body-strewn alley, to hold back the panic that clawed at his innards like a rabid dog.   


  
When the bottle was halfway empty, a vampire swayed her way over to him, smiled, and sat at the opposite side of the table. She couldn’t have been anywhere near as old as he was—her very straight human teeth spoke of a history of orthodontics and her tits demonstrated that silicone could survive beyond the grave—but she wasn’t a fledge either. She carried herself with confidence and didn’t seem to mind having her back to the crowds. She wasn’t exactly pretty, but her self-assurance gave her a sort of beauty anyway. “You’re new,” she purred.   


  
“Not really,” Spike answered.   


  
“And you’re obviously not from around here,” she said with a contralto laugh. “What brings you to our fair city?”   


  
He gave an honest response: “Seemed as good as any other place.”   


  
“Hmm. It’s pretty dull, to be honest. Until now, anyway.” Her smile turned sly and she leaned across the table. She wore a low-cut dress of some slinky blue fabric, and the view as she came closer was quite distracting. “My name’s Jennifer. You?”   


  
“Spike.”   


  
She didn’t seem to recognize his name but she gave another of those R-rated laughs. “Nice to meet you, Spike. Have you eaten yet?”   


  
“Yeah,” he said, and then had second thoughts. “Wouldn’t mind a nosh, though.”   


  
She stood and held out a hand to him. “Right this way, sweetheart.”   


  
He took her hand and allowed her to lead him around groups of demons, towards a small side door. He expected that the door would lead outside and she'd take him somewhere to find prey. That would give him an opportunity to dust her, which was a prospect slightly less terrifying than going against hordes of nasties. But instead he found himself in a dark, crowded room where humans lolled on an assortment of filthy chairs and sofas. Some of the humans were obviously strung out on various pharmaceuticals, while others displayed arms and necks with fresh fang marks.   


  
“I’d recommend that one,” Jennifer said, pointing at a goth girl of around twenty, who was smiling hopefully at them both. “She’s young and fresh and she doesn’t do any hard drugs. Unless you’re into that kind of thing … you know, the borrowed buzz. Those guys over there shoot heroin. If meth’s more your style, I know a place where crank-heads will let you drink your fill if you pay ’em enough for a hit.”   


  
“You don’t … you don’t hunt?” he asked in bewilderment.   


  
She shrugged. “Why bother? There’s always plenty to eat here and it keeps us off the radar, you know? So far, none of those damn vampire slayers have set up shop around here and we’d like to keep it that way.” She narrowed her eyes. “You’re not gonna cause trouble, are you?”   


  
“No. I … just surprised is all.”   


  
She perked up again and dragged him in the direction of the goth girl. “Then eat up!”   


  
Spike gazed at the human. He had to revise his estimate of her age downward—sixteen, maybe seventeen at most. She sprouted piercings like a hedgehog sprouts bristles and her fingernails and lips and eyes were painted black; her hair was dyed a matte black as well and tattoos spiraled up her bare arms and across her collarbones. But she hadn’t yet built a brittle shell around herself and her blue eyes were bright and lively instead of hard or dull.   


  
“Hi!” she said to him. She was possibly aiming for sultry but instead the greeting came out as a chirp.   


  
“Hullo, pet.”   


  
She almost squealed. “English! Omigod you’re English!”   


  
“I am.”   


  
She wiggled in her seat. “I’m gonna get bit by a real English vampire!”   


  
“Have you done this before?”   


  
“Of course!” she said with a roll of her eyes. Then she batted her eyelashes. “But none of the others were as cute as you.”   


  
With a sigh, he knelt beside her chair. “This is dangerous business, love. Doesn’t take much for a vamp to get just a bit carried away, take just a bit too much, especially when the meal’s as tasty as you. And then you’re just a pretty corpse wearing too much makeup.”   


  
He could see conflicting emotions battling across her face: she was flattered but also affronted. Finally, she huffed. “I know what I’m doing.”   


  
Spike glanced up at Jennifer, who was waiting impatiently, and then at the only other vampire in the room, a bulky bloke who looked as if he belonged to a biker gang, and who’d just sunk his fangs into a skanky addict’s neck. Swallowing a sigh, Spike said, “Yeah. All right.”   


  
The goth girl clapped her hands and tilted her head far to the side. But Spike remained on his knees and took her small hand instead. She wore a bracelet about her wrist, a delicate gold chain with a little dangling ballet slipper. It didn’t suit the rest of her kit at all, and he imagined it had been given to her when she was younger, perhaps by a relative she adored. Her veins were clearly visible beneath her pale skin.   


  
With a slight shudder, Spike shifted to his demon face. He closed his eyes tightly, opened them again, and then sank his fangs into the girl’s thin, tender skin.   


  
“Oh!” she said in mingled pain and surprise. But she didn’t try to pull away, even though his grip on her arm was deliberately light. For the first time in ages he drank human blood fresh from the tap. It was delicious. Jennifer hadn’t been lying about the girl being free of drugs, either. Her blood sparkled with youth and health and vitality.   


  
When Spike let her arm go a few mouthfuls later, her eyes had gone hazy and she was grinning sleepily. His cock was as hard as iron.   


  
He stood and looked at Jennifer, who was licking her lips. “Had enough, sweetheart?” she asked.    


  
“Yeah,” he answered hoarsely.   


  
“Wanna go someplace more private, then?” She gave the bulge at his crotch a significant look. “We could take care of that.”   


  
The girl’s blood was still popping in his mouth like champagne bubbles. He nodded at Jennifer. She smiled delightedly and began towing him back into the bar’s main room.   


  
But just as they entered, a roar sounded from near the front and Spike saw a Polgara skewer a tall, skinny demon with mottled gray fur. The furred demon collapsed in a heap when the Polgara released it, its greenish blood forming a pool on the dirty floor. The downed creature’s friends retaliated, rushing the Polgara en masse so that the larger demon was borne to the ground. Then some orangish scaly things threw themselves into the fray, and a pair of Tyhili followed suit, and within the blink of an eye most of the crowd joined in. The bartender remained behind the bar, watching dispassionately.   


  
Jennifer looked at Spike with sparkling eyes. “Looks like fun! C’mon!” And she tugged on his hand.   


  
But Spike plastered himself against the wall—knocking against a flyspecked photo of a long-dead celebrity as he did so—and hyperventilated. It felt as if his heart was racing and his pulse thudding, even though neither was possible, and his skin felt clammy and goosepimply. His knees wobbled.   


  
Jennifer pulled harder, looking back at him with confusion. “Come on! We’ll miss all the good stuff!”   


  
But all he could do was shake his head and yank his hand away from her. There was a roaring in his ears—not from the fight in front of him, but from a battle long ended, one in which some of the screams came from the throats of his friends, and one in which he’d witnessed horrors that made the flames of hell seem like a tropical holiday in comparison. There was mocking laughter as well, very faint. _Here’s the rules_ , someone said. “Can’t,” Spike whispered to Jennifer.   


  
She cocked her head at him, eyes wide. And then she shrugged and raced across the room toward the fight, whooping happily at the top of her lungs the entire way.   


  
Spike kept his back to the wall except when furniture got in the way. He crept around to the front door and then slunk out into the night, the demon disgusted with his cowardice, and the man, simply ashamed.   


[   
  
  
](http://ixcacao.livejournal.com/16397.html)


	5. Chapter 5

[   
](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/001kbwqb)

[  
](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/001kh415)

  
  


  
Spike wasn’t certain what he’d been expecting Xander Harris’s house to look like. He remembered that awful basement with far too much clarity and had only fuzzy memories of the flat where he’d slept in Harris’s cupboard. Harris had claimed he was doing well professionally despite the drinking, so perhaps Spike reckoned he’d find the man living in a McMansion of some sort, or a bachelor pad built for debauchery.  


  
When he turned his Studebaker onto the quiet street, what Spike actually found was a modest ranch house covered in gray wooden siding, with a two-car garage and a neatly trimmed lawn. Yellow and purple flowers spilled over the edge of a pot on the little front porch. The front light was on, almost as if Spike were expected.  


  
Spike pulled the car to a halt in front of the house, eschewing the white driveway. After he’d cut the engine he remained sitting for nearly five minutes. Not really thinking. More like preparing himself. Then he exited the car—slamming the door behind him—marched up the front walk, and pounded on the door. He had a cigarette lit by the time the door swung open.  


  
It had been nearly a year since Harris had appeared at Rose Manor. The man looked better now; his little paunch had disappeared and he’d gained muscle around the chest and shoulders. He was sporting five o’clock shadow—not surprising as it was nearly 9 p.m.—but his skin was tanned and the circles beneath his eyes had faded. He’d allowed his hair to grow several inches longer and now it looked more silver than gray. His expression was carefully blank. “Spike,” he said quietly.  


  
Spike exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Gonna invite me in?”  


  
Harris seemed to consider the question carefully before nodding. “Sure. Please come in, Spike.”  


  
Spike took a few more drags from his cigarette, flicked the butt into the grass, and stepped inside. The living room was as tidy as the outside of the house and smelled of fresh paint. There was a leather sofa and a pair of matching chairs, a television that was blaring some comedy program, and a few small tables. The off-white walls were bare and there wasn’t a single knickknack in sight. The place had less personality than a hotel room.  


  
The two of them stood awkwardly for a few moments, until Harris gestured Spike to a chair. Harris remained standing, though. “Um … you want something to drink?”  


  
“Beer.”  


  
“Nope. Nothing with alcohol and no blood either. I’ve got … Pepsi. OJ. A little milk, I think. Water.”  


  
“Forget it.”  


  
Harris shrugged and clicked off the telly, then sat in the vacant chair. He picked nervously at the seam of his jeans and adjusted the strap of his eye patch. It occurred to Spike that Harris must have slipped the patch on hastily when he’d heard the knocking at his door. “Why are you here?” Harris finally asked.  


  
Spike didn’t answer at first. He rose to his feet again and paced the room. A doorway at one side led to a kitchen, and a sliding glass door opened onto the back yard. Spike peered through the glass and saw nothing but more grass, a black and silver barbecue, and a wooden fence. “Shouldn’t a partner in a construction firm live someplace posher?” he asked.  


  
“I quit my job.”  


  
Spike turned to look at Harris, one eyebrow raised questioningly.  


  
“I decided my life needed … a new direction,” Harris explained. “A lot of the guys at work were also my drinking buddies. I had a chunk of change put away, so I sold my way-too-big house and downsized. I can live off my savings for a few years, if I’m careful. And if I live that long.”  


  
“You look healthy enough to me.”  


  
Harris smiled. “I am. Better shape than I’ve been in years.”  


  
“Then why the expectations of premature death?”  


  
“I’m patrolling again.”  


  
Spike blinked at him. “Patrolling?”  


  
“Yeah. For demons. Things aren’t very apocalypsy around here so there aren’t any Slayers stationed nearby. I’ve been kinda taking up the slack. Staking an occasional fledge, that kind of thing. Last week I decapitated a … I forget what they’re called. Giant scorpion-looking thing. Ugh.”  


  
Walking back into the living room proper, Spike stared curiously at Harris. “Why would you do something like that, putting yourself in harm's way? Reliving your youth? Or one of your twelve bloody steps?”  


  
“I doubt any recovery program on the planet includes demon-killing, Spike. I dunno. I needed … some meaning in my life, I guess. Something to help me hate that face in the mirror a little less.”  


  
Spike snorted. “Can’t just help the underprivileged like all the other sods? Send medicines to India or save the whales or summat.”  


  
“A guy’s gotta go with what he knows best.”  


  
For a few minutes, Harris waited silently while Spike paced the room. And then, with vampire speed, Spike rushed across the carpet and stopped a fraction of an inch in front of Harris in his chair. He grabbed the man’s biceps and hauled him to his feet and leaned very close.  


  
“You’ve loads of reasons to hate that face,” Spike said with a snarl.  


  
“I know.”  


  
“You called that singing demon that time. Lied to send Angel to hell. You … you,” Spike did a ragged, involuntary inhale, “did other things as well.”  


  
“I _know_ ,” Harris repeated. “And that’s just the stuff you know about. There’s more. But I don’t need you to remind me about it, Spike. I think about it every fucking day.”  


  
Spike didn’t back away. “Then let me remind you of something else. A promise I once made you. I told you that when I got rid of that bloody chip, yours would be—”  


  
“The first throat you tore into. I haven’t forgotten.”  


  
With a satisfying crunch, Spike changed his face. “Chip’s out, mate.”  


  
Harris swallowed loudly but stood his ground. “Chip’s been out a while. I guess it doesn’t matter that the soul’s in.”  


  
“Soul? What difference does a fucking soul make?” Spike roared. “People with souls do ugly things every day.” He dropped his voice. “You had a bloody soul when you raped me.”  


  
Harris winced over the last phrase and turned his face away.  


  
With a growl, Spike spun on his heel and marched several feet away. He kept his back to Harris as he spoke. “You’ve no idea what you did to me, do you? Justified it to yourself then: ‘Just a nasty demon. Not a _real_ person.’ Most likely told yourself it did no harm to something like me, or if it did, I deserved it. And I expect I did deserve it. Christ knows I’d done loads worse. But it did hurt me, Harris. It … diminished me. Still does. The specter of what you did to me has been hanging over me all these years, weakening me.” Spike hadn’t planned these words, hadn’t even thought them to himself, but as soon as he said them he knew they were true.  


  
There was no response, and after a few moments Spike turned to look at Harris. The man was still standing there, hands at his sides. “It diminished me, too,” he said in a near-whisper. “Yours was one of the faces I was trying to wash away with booze.”  


  
“Well, boo-hoo. Poor, poor Xander. Let me mop up your tears.”  


  
“What do you want me to do, Spike? I can’t undo it. I can’t do anything except fucking apologize and I’ve already done that. Want to hear it again? Want me on my knees when I say it?”  


  
With a few quick strides, Spike closed the distance between them. He pushed Harris roughly down onto the carpet and grabbed the silver and brown hair hard, forcing the head to the side. “I want you on your knees when I fucking kill you,” he spat.  


  
Harris struggled only slightly and then went still. “Is this really gonna solve anything?”  


  
“Dunno. Can’t hurt me any more than I am already. ’M fucking broken, Harris. You didn’t do it all, can’t blame you for everything. But you did your share of the damage.” It was something he had never admitted to himself until he said it out loud. He had never been quite whole since Harris had violated him. It was as if he had been infected by some sort of virus during the rape and the virus had come to full fruition when he was wounded in the battle with the lawyers. He was left only a trembling shell of his former self.   


  
Harris’s voice was flat, resigned. “Buffy’ll find out. They’ll come after you.”  


  
“Let them! Let them drive their stakes through my fucking heart! Let them … let it end.” Spike was sobbing. _Bloody hell._ That wasn’t why he had traveled all this way. He came to reclaim his power, not to spill his guts and bawl like a schoolgirl...  


  
“Hell of a way to commit suicide,” Harris said, and closed his eye. But before Spike could actually bite, the eye opened again. “You’re right, you know. About the soul being bullshit. I attacked— I raped you when I had one. You stopped yourself from raping Buffy when you didn’t. Even as a soulless bloodsucker, you were a better man than me.”  


  
As Harris spoke, images flooded Spike’s mind of a white bathroom and a pale, frightened girl in a bathrobe. He remembered how it had felt, the urgency, the conviction that if he could just get inside she’d see it all, she’d realize what they had and how she truly felt about him. A demon’s reasoning or a man’s, he wasn’t sure which. And she’d thrown him against the wall. In that moment, he had known: what he had been about to do to her, and how it would have destroyed her. How the humiliation of being taken and violated would have cracked her already fragile self-assurance. Perhaps she wouldn’t have given in quite then, but he would have infected her with that virus and the next beastie that attacked would have got her, or the one after. She would have fallen apart. Even as the minor bruises formed on his back, he had realized these things because he knew them firsthand. And instead of pressing the attack, he had left. Left the bathroom, left Sunnydale, left the continent. Gained a soul.  


  
Years later, in a too-neat living room in a tidy subdivision, Spike fell to his knees beside Xander Harris. Harris looked at him in confusion and surprise.  


  
“I don’t forgive you,” Spike rasped. “Don’t have it in me. But … I see now. If you hadn’t done what you did, I would have … Things would have been different. Wouldn’t have worn the bloody necklace, wouldn’t have fought beside the poof when that pillock reckoned he could destroy those lawyers. I’m a shadow of a man, Harris, but I wouldn’t even be that.”  


  
Harris stared at him for a long time and then rose shakily to his feet. He stuck a hand in Spike’s direction. “Want help?” he asked.  


  
Spike looked at the hand. “Yeah,” he said, and grasped it. It was strong and warm and calloused. Harris helped him stand.  


  
Harris’s smile was weak but it was there. “Now’s where I would have had a couple stiff shots, not so long ago. I’m gonna go get some water instead. Sure you don’t want something?”  


  
“Crisps. I could eat some crisps. Have you any?”  


  
“Are you kidding? Sour cream and onion, salt and vinegar, or bacon—what’s your pleasure?”  


  
“Some of each?”  


  
Harris nodded and walked towards the kitchen. Spike watched him go. The man wasn’t young anymore and his shoulders sagged a bit from the baggage he carried. He’d been through nearly as much as Spike, and in a shorter span of time. His halo was tarnished and his wings were clipped. But he hadn’t given up. He was trying to do the right thing. Risking his mortal neck not because he expected redemption, but so he could look at himself in the mirror.  


  
Spike didn’t have to worry about facing his own reflection. But he hated himself nonetheless for what he’d done and what he’d hadn’t. For surviving when those who were more deserving didn’t. For being weak and for harming others out of that weakness. It was his self-hatred that made him afraid, that had kept him mopping floors when he could have been doing so much more.  


  
What was left undone in his existence? Finding meaning. Finding himself, perhaps. And as Harris had said, a man must do what he knows best.  


  
As Harris returned to the room, a glass of water in one hand and three bags of crisps in the other, Spike plopped back down into his chair. When Harris handed him the bags, Spike dug into one of them. He shoved a handful of salty, crunchy potato bits into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed. Somehow he felt pieces of himself coming back, snugging into place.  


  
With a smile that started as tentative, then stretched his mouth in almost forgotten ways, he said, “So. You reckon there are any more of those scorpion monsters in town?”  


  
  


  
 _  
~~~fin~~~  
_  


Comments here or on my LJ are greatly appreciated!!

[  
](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/001kc756)

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is greatly appreciated!


End file.
